


The Ballad of Fort McCoy

by seanchaidh



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-10
Updated: 2009-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-17 14:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seanchaidh/pseuds/seanchaidh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The intramurals were meant to give the crew a chance to mingle and bond together. As the teams vie for victory, one team appears to have an advantage... only he’s not too damned happy about his new status.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hikaru Sulu

**Author's Note:**

> Based in part on the Star Trek XI kink meme: “5 people who were surprised to realize McCoy is seriously hot and the one person (Kirk) who knew it all along,” and then it grew a plot. Thanks to lapillus, geminia905, enkanowen, and basking_lizard for commentary and betaing. I'll make sure there's a hypo with your name on it. ;-)

The idea of hosting intramurals came up three months into the mission. The crewmen who'd suggested the games worded their proposal carefully: the Enterprise had a young crew and this would be a great opportunity to mingle and bond together. Captain Kirk didn't exactly need convincing; he'd read the suggestion aloud on the bridge with a certain tone of glee, and approved it without a second thought. Within days, there was a list of teams from most of the departments onboard, but Kirk clearly felt there was an important omission.

“You know, the bridge crew should get a team together,” he told Sulu one quiet shift on the bridge. “I think the first sport’s supposed to be floor hockey.”

Sulu glanced back at him. “Yeah, but that’s not really my sport.”

“Yeah, but you’re adaptable.” Kirk smiled widely. “Fencing isn’t really hand-to-hand combat, but you managed just fine. You should captain a team.”

“Don’t you want to head up a team yourself, sir?”

Leaning back in his chair, Kirk shrugged. “Nah, don’t feel the need. I know for a fact, though, that Scotty’s putting a team of engineers together, and that’s just asking for trouble.”

“No kidding.” Every now and again, back at the Academy, Engineering students would march across campus and cause general mayhem. It was all meant in good fun, and there was a long-standing rivalry between the Engineering program and Command stream. “We can’t let them win. Sure you won’t take part, Captain?”

“Hell no.” Kirk made a face this time. “I’m quite happy with letting Scotty have the illusion of believing he’s the one who knows what’s best for this lady.”

“I will join your team,” Chekov piped up from the navigation console. “Russians invented hockey, after all.”

And so Sulu started pulling together a team. He needed at least six players, and while he was pleased with the people he’d managed to recruit, he still really needed a goalie. He wanted someone reliable who wouldn’t flinch at something flying in their face, even if it was just a foam ball. No one seemed suitable, and he confessed his worry to the captain one morning in the mess hall.

“That is a problem,” Kirk agreed. He’d appointed himself the unofficial coach, but it was on the down low. “The games begin tomorrow, don’t they?”

“Yes, we’re supposed to play after alpha shift is over.”

Frowning to himself, Kirk looked at the door of the mess and suddenly grinned. “Bones!”

Sulu glanced over and noticed Doctor McCoy heading for the food dispensers. “I don’t think he heard you.”

“No, no. I mean Bones should be your goalie,” Kirk said excitedly. “He’d be perfect. We played football a few times on campus, and he’s solid. Nothing’ll get by him, and just think, any injuries and your medic is right there on hand.”

The idea had merit, but Sulu waited until the doctor had eaten half his breakfast before making his move. In the meantime, he studied McCoy. The man was tall and solid, true, but Sulu couldn’t tell much more than that. Starfleet uniforms were notorious for hiding physical details, but Kirk was probably onto something.

“So, Doc, ever played hockey?”

McCoy’s brow arched. “I’m from the South. We don’t do hockey.”

“Bullshit, Bones!” Kirk grinned at him. “I know for a _fact_ there was an ice hockey team in Atlanta.”

“Notice it’s not there now,” McCoy retorted.

“Whatever,” Kirk said, waving away the excuse. “Sulu needs a goalie, and you’re his man.”

“Am I now?” Taking a long sip of coffee, McCoy fixed Kirk with a skeptical hazel stare. “Why the hell should I?”

“For me?”

McCoy snorted. “Try again.”

“The honor of the bridge crew?”

“I’m not a member of the bridge crew.”

“Well, you’re there often enough you’re a member by proxy.”

“Tentative logic at its best,” McCoy said.

Kirk blinked at him for a good five seconds. “I’m not above bribery, you know.”

“Such as...?”

“Well, it _was_ going to be a birthday present,” Kirk said, “but there just so happens to be a bottle of bourbon with your name on it.”

“Are you implying you can buy me with cheap booze?” McCoy was trying for irritated but one side of his mouth was twisting up, just a bit.

Kirk snorted. “That was _not_ cheap.”

“No?” Finishing his breakfast and pushing his tray aside, McCoy leaned forward with his forearms against the table. “Okay, Sulu, tell me one thing. Does your team at least have a good name?”

They actually didn’t, but Sulu wasn’t about to admit it. “Sure we do.”

“Yeah?” Whether he realized it or not, Kirk was mirroring McCoy’s posture and it was little uncanny.

And Sulu felt the pressure. He’d never been great at naming things; when he handed in assignments, the subject was succinct and not particularly creative. He ended up blurting the first thing that came to mind: “The Tribbles.”

“Your hockey team is named after a species of harmless furballs that are born pregnant?” McCoy actually looked at him agape. “What are we supposed to do, defeat our opponents by cooing them into submission?”

“It’s a strategy,” Kirk said. “Is that a yes?”

Letting out a long-suffering sigh, McCoy shrugged. “Apparently I’ve got nothing better to do, except run an entire sickbay and entertain my best friend.”

Kirk just beamed.

~~~

Sulu managed to arrange for one practice before their debut, and the hastily-dubbed Tribbles assembled in the gym at 1900. He’d only told Chekov about the latest addition, but the other team members – Rand, DeSalle, and Riley – seemed happy to hear McCoy was joining them. The doctor was a few minutes late, and when he showed up wearing shorts and a t-shirt, Sulu faltered for a long moment before directing him to the net.

The uniforms hid a multitude of sins, but they covered a whole lot of blessings, too. Seriously. He wasn’t expecting McCoy to look like _that_. Long legs, toned muscle, broad shoulders, and strong arms... Everything Sulu liked in one sarcastic package, and he was supposed to keep his eyes on their opponents during this game?

McCoy took the goalie stick and placed himself in front of the net. “Well? I don’t have all night.”

“We should practice technique,” Chekov said. “Shooting at the net, for starters.”

“Just don’t aim for the face,” McCoy cautioned.

“Good advice,” Sulu agreed, trying to regain his composure. He was so glad he didn’t blush easily. “Everyone take a turn, and make sure you knock the balls out of those pants.”

His team looked at him blankly, and McCoy raised both brows in question. “Sulu, want to try that one again?”

Oh, dear God. Sulu wanted the deck to swallow him whole, and then tried for a big grin. “Pretending you’re an engineer, Doctor. Creative visualization and all that.”

Every member of his team got in a decent shot, and McCoy blocked all but two. Sulu had to stop himself from staring as he watched McCoy actually enjoying himself and getting into the game. The Tribbles were going to be a furry force to be reckoned with, that was for sure.


	2. Nyota Uhura

The intramural idea sounded fine, but Uhura had no desire to take part. There was a healthy amount of enthusiasm going around the ship, and especially on the bridge; frankly, it was a type of competitiveness she could do without. She wasn’t even too keen to watch the games, but began to relent when Janice Rand – who was quickly becoming a fast friend – announced her intention to play for the bridge team. It would only be for a show of female solidarity, though, and she couldn’t help but be appalled at Sulu’s absolute failure at coming up with a more inspiring name for his team.

“Tribbles?” she’d repeated the morning after the team’s initial practice, while sharing breakfast with Janice. “You’re kidding me.”

“He could’ve named us the Katanas,” Janice said.

“At least that sounds threatening,” Uhura shot back. “What are you supposed to do, jump on the opposite team and smother them to death with fur?”

Janice laughed. “I think we’ve got a good chance. Chekov’s got a mean swing, and McCoy’s got good eye-hand coordination. He shouldn’t let many balls past.”

“I hope he’d have good eye-hand coordination,” Uhura said.

“You know what else our good doctor has?” Janice brushed blonde bangs away from her forehead and glanced around the mess hall. The topic of their conversation was breakfasting across the room with Kirk, and wasn’t noticing the attention being directed his way. “He’s got _nice_ legs.”

One of her favourite features on men. Uhura couldn’t help looking again, but what she could see was obscured by the regulation trousers and boots. She tried for a disinterested tone. “That so?”

Making a noise of agreement, Janice hid a smile behind her coffee mug. “Come watch us play?”

A part of her wanted to say no. She could beg off with an excuse of being busy, but it didn’t feel right – Janice, Sulu and even Chekov were her friends. Glancing in McCoy’s direction again, Uhura whispered, “I’m not going to gawk at Leonard McCoy’s legs. It wouldn’t be... logical.”

“Sweetheart, you’re in a relationship,” Janice said. “You’re not blind.”

Good point.

The game was scheduled to start at 1800, and the tension was building on the bridge as alpha shift came to an end. Both Sulu and Chekov seemed excited, and the impending match kept being discussed: the bets, the strategy, and the jersey color. Sulu had wanted red, Chekov wanted green, but they’d been assigned orange.

“So who’re you playing against tonight?” Captain Kirk asked. For a man who was trying to be unbiased and cheering equally for every team in the league, he was utterly failing when it came to the Tribbles. Uhura hadn’t decided if it was stupid or charming.

“The 75’ers,” Sulu said.

“Right, the weapons specialists,” Kirk nodded. “They’ll be good at precision work, I’d say.”

Chekov looked mildly affronted. “Only if the ball is the size of a torpedo, Captain.”

“I like your attitude,” Kirk grinned, slapping the ensign on the shoulder.

Glancing at the science station, Uhura caught Spock’s gaze for a brief moment. She rolled her eyes at the machismo behind her, but Spock only arched his left brow – just slightly, which meant he was finding it amusing. Uhura let out a breath of annoyance, and allowed herself a brief moment to glance down the length of his legs.

Yeah, still nice.

When the shift finally ended, Uhura found herself alone on the turbolift with Spock.

“I don’t suppose you’ll be going to the game?” she asked him.

“Unfortunately I have work I must attend to,” he said, which sounded like the lamest excuse she’d heard in a long time. Before she could open her mouth for a retort, he looked at her with the faintest of smiles. “However, I would appreciate being told the details of the game tonight in my quarters.”

“The highlights of the game, right?” The things she did for this man.

“Consider it more of a debriefing,” he said, and with a quirk of his lips, he strode past the open turbolift doors in the hallway.

On the bright side, at least she had a reason to go to the game now.

She really meant to arrive on time, but the game had just started by the time she showed up. The gymnasium had seating for a few dozen, and she was lucky to find the one extra seat near the rear. She scanned the crowd quickly as she sat, and was surprised to recognize most of the people there. The Enterprise really was like a small town at times.

The Tribbles held the right side of the court, and seemed to be holding their own against the purple-jerseyed 75’ers. She didn’t exactly know the rules of the game, but figured it was the basic idea of putting the ball in the opponent’s net. Sulu had the ball, coming to almost screeching halt in the middle of the court while assessing his teammates’ positions. Janice, her hair tied back in a tight ponytail, was just meters from the 75’ers net, while Chekov was hurtling down from the other side.

“Come on, come on, come on!” someone in front of her started to scream, but it wasn’t clear if she was cheering Sulu – who’d finally hit the ball toward Janice – or encouraging the 75’er who was intent on stealing the ball as it passed by.

Chekov cut in with a tackle, knocking the larger man off-kilter, and Janice intercepted the ball. Her slapshot was checked by another 75’er, who sent it careening down the court toward the Tribbles’ net.

And McCoy stopped it with his foot.

As the referee whistled, bringing the game to a temporary stop as McCoy hit the ball in her direction, Uhura found herself really looking. Everyone was wearing shorts with their jerseys, and all she could really look at was the length of McCoy’s really, really nice legs. He was waiting for the action to continue, leaning against the net with one hip and holding the hockey stick like a sceptre.

Damn it, Janice was right.

“He just likes the goalie stick because it’s bigger than everyone else’s,” Kirk whispered beside her.

She hadn’t heard his approach over the noise of the game. She gave him a look and hissed, “Does everything have to be a double entendre with you?”

Kirk looked pleased with himself. “Not everything, but consider it a bit of friendly advice, Lieutenant, you’re drooling.”

“I am not,” she said, feeling her cheeks warm. At least it was hidden by her complexion, and could be blamed on the heat from the crowd.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell.” The game had restarted, and Kirk followed the action for a few moments before murmuring to her, “And don’t worry. You’re dating, not dead. No harm in looking.”

Fair enough, but as the game came to a conclusion half an hour later with the Tribbles winning two-to-one against the 75’ers, Uhura made a marked point in avoiding looking below McCoy’s waist if she could. She knew Kirk was watching her, which was almost as annoying as his quest for her first name during their Academy years. She let the irritation go, however, and indulged in one wolf-whistle when the Tribbles – dear God, why couldn’t Sulu come up with something better? – gathered for a congratulatory back slap at the end.


	3. Montgomery Scott

Jim Kirk was a fine captain, but an abysmal gambler. He’d never know what hit him.

It was well known engineers were born with a streak of competitiveness a light year wide, and Scotty was more than happy to indulge, particularly when a bottle of fine Scotch was at stake. When the intramurals were first organized, there’d been an engineering team before the day was out. Kirk had heard about it when he was down on a regular inspection – visiting the wee bairns, as Scotty liked to call it.

“They’re sounding pretty confident,” Jim had said with a smile.

“It’s more of a sure thing.” At the time, it was a throw-away comment and Scotty really hadn’t thought twice about it. There’d been the joke at Starfleet Academy among the engineering cadets that the command-stream cadets were all bravado and nothing to show for it but a chest full of medals. It took real haw maws – figuratively speaking, of course, considering the ladies – to run a ship. “They’re always good at what they do.”

“I don’t know, I bet my bridge crew could give them a run for their money.” Kirk’s blue eyes were twinkling as he considered the possibility.

“With all due respect, Captain, I call bollocks.” If it were any other captain, Scotty would never have dreamed about bad mouthing the bridge officers, but this was Jim Kirk. A certain professional leeway was sometimes allowed, within reason and outside the hearing range of junior officers.

“The proverbial slap of the glove, Mr. Scott?” And now Kirk was starting to grin.

“If you’d like. My engineers versus your bridge crew.” Scotty let the offer dangle for a moment. “I’d be willing to wager a very pricy bottle of Scotch I’ve been saving up for a special occasion.”

“I like the way you think,” Kirk replied. “There’s nothing you’d willingly drink in my stash, but would an IOU do until the next shore leave?”

Frankly, Scotty would’ve been pleased with a promise not to overstress the ship again in the next, oh, five years, but the alcohol was more of a sure thing. “A done deal, Captain. I’ll play your precious bridge crew myself.”

They shook on it, and the inspection continued as if the exchange hadn’t happened.

If they’d wanted a truly fair game, the captain would’ve been playing with the Tribbles – no comment -- against the Haw Maws – note, a brilliant name. However, in the illusion of neutrality, Jim Kirk was cheering for all the teams, but really secretly rooting for the fur balls. Scotty didn’t really care, and found himself really looking forward to the games. The Haw Maws were assigned red, an auspicious color, and their first game was against the yellow-jerseyed stellar cartography team, the Vegas.

It was a rout, honestly.

The next morning in the mess, Scotty began to hear the gossip about the Tribbles’ own first game against the weapons techs. He started taking notes about how they did, and the strengths of the different players. This was serious business, after all. He wasn’t surprised to hear about Chekov or Sulu, and the other players sounded decently competent.

The only thing that worried him was the continued reference to “Fort McCoy.” There’d been a total of six shots against the Tribbles’ net, and only one got past Doctor McCoy. A sixteen percent chance of scoring didn’t sound doable, and obviously required strategizing. Scotty almost wished they were playing rugby.

He felt a gaze on the back of his neck and noticed Kirk staring at him from across the mess. The captain raised his coffee mug and winked.

Bastard.

It was a slow day in Engineering, with the engines purring like contented cats. His crew didn’t have much to do by way of maintenance, and there would be ample time for a team meeting sometime in the mid-afternoon. Essentially, the idea was somehow to overwhelm the Tribbles on their own turf, but it would take a bit of careful planning.

Unfortunately, before lunch Scotty misstepped on a ladder and sprained his ankle.

After limping his way to medical, Scotty snorted softly to himself when he realized McCoy was the attending physician. Following the doctor’s gruff instructions to take off his boot and to try to flex the ankle, Scotty took the time to study the man. He was professional, as usual, and was completely focused on the task at hand.

And speaking of which, McCoy had hands that were wasted on medicine. Long-fingered and strong, they were better suited for engineering. Scotty watched as McCoy manipulated the scanner with one hand, waving it around the swollen joint. He was almost tempted to give the doctor a spanner to see what he could do with it.

Scotty suddenly realized McCoy was staring at him, hazel eyes narrowed slightly.

“Do I need to check your hearing, too?” McCoy demanded.

“I was just thinking of ways I could upgrade your scanner,” Scotty lied. It was easy to fall back on brilliant ideas as a distraction. “So, will I be hirplin’ my way through our next game?” At McCoy’s blank look, Scotty mimed a person limping. “A man who didn’t know better might think it’s a way to make sure your team wins the intramurals.”

“Oh, for god’s sake, man.” Scowling, McCoy put his hands on his hips. “I don’t really care who wins the intramurals.”

“Says the so-called Fort McCoy,” Scotty said, and quickly realized that he might have miscalculated.

He got a hypospray to the neck for his troubles. “That’s to help with the swelling, and for the record, if my team wins the intramurals, it’s because the other teams deserve to lose.”

Scotty rubbed his neck, but his gaze fell on the hand holding the hypo. Damn, he moved quickly. “Aye.”

“Though I did hear your team did well last night,” McCoy continued, his annoyance ebbing back down.

“I heard the same about yours,” Scotty said. “Admittedly, no one on my team has a nickname.”

McCoy just rolled his eyes. “Beginner’s luck, I assure you.”

“That so?” Grasping onto the information and considering the possibility, Scotty watched as the treatment began on his damaged ligaments. “Never played before?”

“I’m a doctor, not a jock,” McCoy said, “but seriously, there’s nothing complicated about standing in front of a net and stopping a ball. Incidentally, and don’t take this as your future opponent talking but as your goddamned physician, you’re sitting out tonight’s game. You’ll be fine for tomorrow, though.”

“Fair enough.” Settling back on the biobed, Scotty was content to plot idly, a myriad of strategies forming in his head as he watched McCoy and his pretty hands work. “So, McCoy, ever think of trying your hand at engineering? I’d bet you’d be marvellous…”


	4. Christine Chapel

“That’s it!” Leonard McCoy slammed down his scanner and whirled on his staff. “I swear to God, if I hear that nickname one more time, I’m going to bend the Hippocratic Oath so far, it’ll be shoved up someone’s ass. Is that clear?”

There was a stunned silence across the Sickbay. Christine watched as gazes were adverted and a few throats cleared uncomfortably, but eventually there was a faint chorus of “yes, Doctor.” Apparently satisfied but still ruffled, McCoy retreated to his office.

Levesque blinked in the aftermath of the explosion. “All I said was ‘good job last night.’”

Letting out a sigh that could probably be described as long-suffering, Christine resisted patting the orderly on the arm, though the confusion was endearing. “I’ll go deal with him.”

Sometimes when McCoy was in a foul mood, she felt like she needed neo-asbestos armor when she knocked at his door. Today, not as much. McCoy looked like he was working, but he glanced up at her entrance. He huffed, but it lacked the usual fire. Today’s tantrum was short-lived, apparently, which was fine. Christine Chapel wasn’t exactly a fan of dealing with people using kid-gloves, which – other than being the best nurse on the ship, thank you – was the reason she hadn’t resigned in frustration.

Besides, McCoy looked ridiculous when he was yelling, but she’d never tell him that.

“You know,” she began, once she tapped the door control shut, “for a man who answers to ‘Bones,’ you’re really being oversensitive.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s meant affectionately.”

“It’s the name of a Yankee fort,” McCoy continued.

“And I should care, because…?” Christine shook her head. “You’re a walking anachronism.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“How about if I call you Sulky McSulk?” Now she was teasing, and she earned a mild scowl for her efforts. That suited her fine. “I’ll have you know that the medical team is damn proud of you, Doctor, so you can act like an adult and just accept it.”

He looked uncomfortable. “It’s a goddamned game, for crying out loud.”

“And we’re enjoying it,” she said, and it was true. She’d attended last night’s game when the Tribbles had cleaned the court – figuratively speaking, of course – with the shuttle techs’ Flotation Devices, and she’d been caught up with the excitement and the thrill of the game. “So who are you playing tonight?”

“It’s the finals, and thank God for that.” McCoy leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “The best of three games against the Hee Haws.”

“Haw Maws,” she corrected.

He waved that away. “Whatever the next sport happens to be, if someone asks me to join a team, they’re going to get a hypo for their trouble.”

“Shouldn’t the senior officers be setting an example for the rest of the crew?” Christine said. “The intramurals are promoting physical activity.”

“I get more exercise making my bed than playing goal,” McCoy muttered.

It was her turn to roll her eyes. “Fine, whatever, but here’s the thing: you can’t throw a fit on the court if they start calling you –“

“Don’t say it,” McCoy warned.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she reassured him, “but the point remains, Doctor, that you’ve got a lot of people cheering for you. They want you to succeed, and it’s manifesting through a possibly silly nickname. Deal with it. It’s a compliment.”

McCoy looked like he wanted to say something more, but he finally let out a sigh.

“Fine, I’ll be terrifyingly polite,” he promised.

She wasn’t entirely sure if that were possible, but she still had one point to make. “Personally, I think you’re terrified to let people find out you’re enjoying the whole experience.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” he shot at her.

“I’m going,” she said, but she wasn’t done yet. “Don’t worry, Doctor, it’ll be our secret.”

Satisfied the beast seemed mollified, Christine smiled and went back to her duties.

~~~

Sensing the gymnasium might be full, although someone had gotten the bright idea to broadcast the game in the officer’s mess, Christine decided to arrive early for the tournament. She wasn’t the only one with that idea, however, and she let out a sigh of disappointment when she saw the seating area almost full.

“Nurse Chapel, over here!” Levesque called, waving so she’d see him – which was sweet, because the area wasn’t that big. “We saved you a seat.”

She squeezed into the empty space, between Levesque and Oldham, and realized she was surrounded by medical staff. Craning her neck, Christine looked around and recognized a handful of bridge crew in the front row, and seated on the other end, the engineers were crowded almost to capacity. There was only standing room left, and even then, it was being filled in the last few minutes before the game.

The two teams finally emerged a few minutes later, and the audience erupted into cheers. It didn’t take long for the engineers to drown out the rest with their whistles and good-natured jeers against the Tribbles. Levesque threw them a look, but it was ignored.

This wasn’t going to be like last night’s game, Christine knew it in her bones.

At the center of the court, Sulu faced off against a red-jerseyed Scotty. The referee looked from one to the other, said something that didn’t carry, and then dropped the ball.

The action was fast, intense, and a few seconds later, the ball was in front of the Tribbles’ net. Christine and the rest of the Sickbay staff jumped to their feet, yelling, as McCoy blocked the shot and returned it to the other side of the court. He also glanced their way, a little smile curving one side of his mouth.

Unfortunately, that was the last distraction he had for the first half of the game. The score was 1-1, and while the teams were pretty evenly matched, the Haw Maws were playing with an aggressive determination. Body contact wasn’t exactly frowned on in the rules, but the Haw Maws were edging the definition as they bodychecked their way down the court.

And then someone from the engineering crowd tossed a fake Tribble on the court in the middle of the play. The sudden landing in front of Riley caused him to stumble, and he lost the ball to Boell, who immediately took off for the other end of the court.

“This isn’t good,” Oldham whispered in her ear, even as everyone stood up and yelled in response to the action.

Christine shook her head, joining the rest of the audience and shouted her encouragement to the Tribbles. Chekov and Janice were on Boell’s heels, but they weren’t going to get to the ball in time before he shot it directly toward the net.

“Come on, Fort McCoy!” someone in the front row screamed.

Holding her breath, Christine felt like time had slowed down in the time it took the ball to approach McCoy. She saw his jaw clench as he tensed, and then he was blocking the shot with both his stick and his upper arm. The ball bounced away, and then Chekov was in control of the ball and heading back for the Haw Maws’ side of the court.

_He can stitch  
He can suture  
There’s a physical in your future  
Fort McCoy! Fort McCoy!_

Christine didn’t know who started the chant, but it was stupid and very funny. She laughed as she heard it, and she added her voice to it. More voices picked up the lyrics, and soon enough it was drowning out the engineers’ jeers as referee called a time-out for something she hadn’t seen. She was too busy looking McCoy’s way, daring him to react.

And he was. He stood in front of his net, trying to watch the progression of the game, but casting glances at the audience. He was trying to scowl, brows drawn low, but the expression lacked his normal thunder. She could see the same little smile as before trying to break loose, and he finally gave up the fight.

Leonard McCoy grinned, shook his head, and shook the stick at her. Christine rolled her own eyes in response, and wondered just how she’d missed that particular McCoy expression before, because it was a damn shame. It really suited him.


	5. Pavel Chekov

His fellow crew members seemed to doubt the veracity of the claim, but Russians truly had invented hockey. The Canadians had claimed it, layering insult to injury, after a series of hockey games in the late twentieth century, but real Russians knew the truth. Generations of Chekovs had grown up playing the game, whether on the ice or indoors – a stroke of Russian ingenuity so it could be enjoyed in all seasons.

For that reason, Pavel Chekov knew with certainty his team would win the tournament, though he wished Sulu had chosen a better name. The first time he’d seen a Tribble, brought back from Delta Vega along with Scotty’s other belongings, it had evoked memories of his grandfather Boris’ winter hat. Pavel hated that hat. Fortunately, the association wasn’t affecting his performance; he’d scored most of the points in their games.

But winning a game was about more than mere scoring; it was equally important to prevent the opponent from gaining points. In that area, Doctor McCoy was good enough to be a Russian. This wasn’t a compliment Pavel often offered, and while he’d yet to voice it to McCoy, it was true. Pavel wished to sit the doctor down with a vodka and inquire into his ancestry; there had to be a Russian in there somewhere.

Nevertheless, Pavel felt certain the Tribbles would win tonight. They would have already won with the second game of the final if there hadn’t been a medical emergency that required Doctor McCoy’s expertise. The game had been fierce and the Tribbles had played well, but with DeSalle in the net, they weren’t able to withstand the Haw Maws.

Game three would be different.

It was clear, however, in the hours leading to the game, that other members of his team weren’t nearly as convinced. Sulu sat quietly throughout most of the afternoon, monitoring his station and clearly thinking of strategy that would work on the court. The one time McCoy appeared at the bridge to provide the Captain with a briefing, he was standing in a way where he could keep an eye on Scotty’s position the entire time. Even Rand seemed tense as she went about her duties on the bridge.

The mood hadn’t improved by the time the six of them gathered in the mess for a quick dinner. Looking at their serious faces, Pavel wondered how he could share his certainty with them. This game _couldn’t_ end badly.

“They’re going to pull out all the stops tonight,” Sulu said suddenly when the little chatter there was dried up. “They’ll play by the rules, but it’ll be a loose interpretation of them.”

“More of the same, then,” Rand muttered, rubbing her arm. She’d been body-checked during the last game, and clearly she still felt sore.

McCoy gave her a measured look. “You all right?”

She waved him off. “Just a bump, Doc, don’t worry.”

“You’re not going to score any goals if you’re in pain,” he shot back. “Let me have a look before we get changed.”

The doctor’s logic – oh, Mr. Spock would have been amused at that – won her over, and Rand shrugged her acquiescence. Pavel saw Sulu watching the exchange with a calculating eye. A few moments later, he pushed his tray aside and leaned his forearms against the table.

“No weaknesses tonight,” Sulu continued. “Be aware of where the rest of the team is at all times. We’re going to keep the ball inside their zone as much as possible, and keep them busy. As for you, McCoy, do your best tonight. I want you to be impenetrable.”

“Right, I have a suit of armor in my quarters I’ve been wanting to wear,” McCoy muttered behind his cup, though Pavel was the only one to hear him clearly.

“The greatest fortresses in history were Russian,” Pavel offered.

McCoy eyed him for a long moment. “That so?”

Nodding, Pavel reached for the doctor’s tray and stacked it beneath his own. “It’s a well known fact.”

“You’re sounding a little sure of yourself, kid,” McCoy said, his mouth quirking into a slight scowl. “You want to add soothsayer to your list of achievements? We haven’t played the game yet.”

“I understand where you are coming from,” Pavel replied, choosing his words carefully. “We have a saying at home. ‘Do not praise yourself going into battle. Praise yourself coming out of battle.’ You are being modest.”

“It’s got nothing to do with modesty,” McCoy retorted. “I mean, whoever came up with that stupid nickname was being cute, but a hell of a lot of forts have fallen before. Troy, the Alamo, Lexar VII, and that’s just the ones I can think of. I’m a doctor, damn it, not a historian. A lot of things could go wrong.”

The sound of a throat clearing to Pavel’s left distracted him. Riley was fixing them with a look of his own, and he shook his head. “And I’ve got a saying for you both: don’t tempt fate.”

~~~

Pushing sweat-damp curls from his forehead, Pavel paused for a moment and leaned on his hockey stick as the referee signalled a time-out. Across the court, the other players came to a standstill and the sound from the audience – a very packed room – fell to a murmur. The air felt thick with anticipation and tension.

The game had reached an impasse. The Tribbles had scored early in the game when Rand, assisted by DeSalle, got the ball into the Haw Maws’ net in the first five minutes. Their lead had lasted into the start of the second period, and then the Haw Maws made their comeback. A rough play across the court, and three engineers seemed to swarm McCoy at once. Their goal was more accident than strategy, but it was still a point.

And since then, they were deadlocked at a 1-1 tie. Pavel was doing his best, but he felt it was an uphill battle. No matter how much he focused on the game, and lined up the shots that should’ve worked, he wasn’t getting anywhere. The Haw Maws seemed to be everywhere, but at least they were having the same level of frustration as the Tribbles. McCoy wasn’t letting any more balls past him.

Unfortunately, Pavel was worried. Short of transporting the ball into the Haw Maw net, he wasn’t sure how the game would end.

The referee whistled for the game to resume, but there were only three minutes left before they reached overtime. Meeting Sulu’s gaze across the court, Pavel smiled encouragingly and watched as the ball was dropped between Scotty and Riley.

This time, the action felt frenzied and Pavel ran after the ball like his life depended on it. Scotty slid past him and hit the ball toward McCoy, but the doctor positioned himself in time and knocked it back across the court. DeSalle ran for it, attempting a shot at the net, but he was pushed aside and then the action was coming back across the court.

Aware there were only seconds left, Pavel suddenly saw his opportunity. He took off, the excited shouts ringing in his ears as he wove between two of the larger engineers and just as he had access to the ball, ready to swing... the period ended. The referee whistled.

Pavel’s momentum stumbled to a halt, his heart pounding as he cursed loudly in Russian.

“Five minutes until overtime,” the referee announced before walking off the court.

Still trying to catch his breath, Pavel jogged back to the Tribble net and did his best to ignore the engineers. The rest of the team was gathering around McCoy, who was probably the least sweaty of them all; he had his elbows resting on the top of the net as he leaned against it.

“Get some water now,” he ordered, and his right eyebrow angled up as he dared the others to challenge him. It was a very Russian effect, and Pavel found himself seeking his water bottle. He also handed the doctor a bottle of his own, which earned him a small smile of thanks. “All right, any bright ideas, Sulu?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, Sulu stared across the court toward Scotty and his team. “Short of more of the same?”

“More of the same what?” McCoy gestured to the other team with his stick. “We could theoretically be playing this game until the early hours of the morning.”

“It wouldn’t go that far,” DeSalle said. “The referee could suggest other ways to break the tie.”

“Like what?” Rand asked.

“Penalty shots, maybe.”

“I say we go back out there, and just give ‘em hell,” Riley suggested. “Every person for themselves, and throw them so far off balance, we’ll win that way.”

“Remind me to have the bridge notify me when you’re in command,” McCoy muttered.

“We’re the bridge crew,” Pavel interrupted, looking at each of his teammates earnestly. When he met McCoy’s hazel gaze, he had to adjust what he was saying. “Well, bridge crew with honorary guest, but regardless, we simply do not do no-win situations. We will win this game.”

McCoy rolled his eyes. “Let’s get it over with.”

A moment later, they were ready to begin the overtime. Pavel took his position, watching as Sulu faced off with Scotty, and then the action began anew. It felt more frenzied this time, if that were possible, and Pavel found himself hard on the heels of a Haw Maw who was heading directly for McCoy. Using his smaller size to his advantage, Pavel ducked around and stole the ball from his grasp. He immediately headed for the Haw Maw net, and found his shot going wide.

More of the same, obviously.

If anything, that made Pavel even more determined. The ball was being played on the Tribble side of the court, and McCoy was watching the action warily. Riley was the closest player, and he dove into action by throwing himself in the Haw Maw’s path. It succeeded for a moment, but another player coming from the left slammed into him and they both went down to the deck. A chorus of “ow” came from the crowd.

Pavel felt like he was watching a disaster happening in slow motion. Riley was moving but he was sluggish, and the ball was still in play. Pavel tried to pick up his pace to intercept the approach to the net, but he knew he wasn’t going to be fast enough. He still tried. McCoy’s attention was split between the incoming Haw Maw and Riley; his instincts as a healer conflicted with his current role as a goalie.

The sound of the crowd roared in Pavel’s ears as he watched. Riley was slowly getting to his feet – where was the referee and why wasn’t a penalty called? – and the net had way too much space in it as McCoy kept calling Riley’s name and trying to assess his condition.

The Haw Maw swung her stick, and though McCoy threw himself toward the incoming ball, he wasn’t fast enough. The ball rolled past his outstretched arm and went inside the net.

Cheers and cries of protest rang out in the gymnasium, and the Haw Maws rushed over to their side of the court to celebrate. Pavel glared at them as he went over to Riley, who seemed to have recovered from his fall. McCoy was still in front of the net, but seated cross-legged with his stick discarded at his side. He looked up at his teammates with an expression that seemed both stubborn and contrite, and daring someone to say something.

Riley spoke first. “I’m okay. Thanks, Doc.”

Nodding, McCoy pulled himself to his feet and let out a sigh. “Look, for what it’s worth, it’s been fun playing with you. We got to the finals, that’s something to celebrate. I’ll buy the first round.”

The offer was very generous, but it only brushed past the disappointment churning in Pavel’s gut. As they withdrew from the gymnasium, he hesitated and then hurried to fall in step next to McCoy on their way to the changing room.

“May I speak with you for a second?”

“Sure.” Hands on his hips, McCoy waited for him to speak.

“I admit to being disappointed at the end of our game, but I do not blame you,” Pavel began, and as he saw McCoy begin to say something, he hurried to finish his thought. “No, no, you played very well, Doctor McCoy, as well as a Russian. I wish you to join our team again for the next game.”

“A Russian, huh?” McCoy smiled.

Pavel nodded eagerly.

“I’ll think about it, okay?”

Satisfied, Pavel hurried ahead to get changed, and he was just about done when McCoy suddenly said from across the room, “Wait a minute, are you even old enough to drink yet, Chekov?”

“He’s Russian,” DeSalle interjected. “Enough said.”

So true.


	6. Jim Kirk

Maybe it was a sign he still had a lot of growing up to do, but Jim found there were times when it was damned hard being the captain. In any other circumstance, Jim would’ve liked nothing more than to join the intramurals as a player, and lead the bridge crew – named something different, of course –to a well-deserved victory. If he were still first officer, maybe he would, but as captain, it just felt like a bad idea.

He couldn’t play favorites, or at least not obviously. It gave him a new appreciation for his mom when she’d insisted she loved Jim and Sam equally. He’d known it on some levels, but there’d always been times when he’d doubted it. Sometimes he’d felt Winona had shown more attention to Sam’s science prospects than to most of what Jim had done – when he wasn’t getting into another shitload of trouble.

Maybe it was a little in the way everyone knew he was really cheering for the Tribbles, even as he’d vocally encouraged every single team who’d signed up for the tournament. He’d never suspected he had such as talented crew, frankly, and the games had been fun. Still, he’d cheered more, if quietly, as the Tribbles played their way to the final. He was proud of the way they’d performed, both individually and as a team, despite their eventual loss. The combination of Sulu’s leadership, Chekov’s passion, Rand’s dexterity, and Riley and DeSalle’s solidity...

And Bones who, despite his moodiness, actually had a lot more fun than he wanted to let on.

During tonight’s game, Jim had placed himself in the far corner, careful to keep his neutrality by cheering for all the good plays regardless of team. He’d dressed in civvies to try to be inconspicuous and he thought it had worked, but then again, no one was really watching him. All eyes were on the court as the Tribbles and Haw Maws battled it out, and Jim could’ve cut the tension with a phaser as the game went into overtime.

When Riley went down – and yeah, it looked like it hurt – and the Haw Maws were heading directly for Bones, Jim knew what was coming. As the crowd started yelling at Bones to act, Jim clenched his fists and watched and hoped he was wrong. But Bones being Bones, he pulled his attention away from Riley just a second too late and despite a really good attempt at a save, the ball went straight past him.

Jim winced, and it wasn’t because he’d just lost his bet with Scotty.

Figuring he’d get his time with the Tribbles later, Jim slipped out of the gymnasium as the audience reacted to the Haw Maw win. It was a short walk back to his quarters, and after checking with the bridge – and yes, that was the distinct sound of disappointment he heard – for the latest status report, Jim had time to kill.

But first, Jim Kirk needed to eat humble pie.

Knowing Scotty would be out celebrating his victory with his team, Jim left a message. “Mr. Scott, it’s Jim Kirk. Well played tonight, and my congratulations to the entirety of your creatively-named team. As we agreed, consider this an IOU for the next shore leave. Enjoy your party. Kirk out.”

It would do for now, though Jim considered putting a hefty amount of credits aside for the eventual pay-up. Maybe they’d find an off-sale or something, wherever they ended up on shore leave.

He kicked off his boots, set two glasses onto the table, and then stretched out onto the recliner. He fumbled out with his right hand, seeking his old dog-eared copy of the _Maltese Falcon_ where he’d tossed it the night before. He was three chapters in, absorbed by Sam Spade’s adventures, when he heard the doorchime ring.

It rang two more times in haphazard succession, followed quickly by an arrhythmic knocking at the door. Jim set the open book onto his chest, grinned, and called out, “Come in!”

Just as he expected, it was Bones. He’d changed back into uniform but wasn’t wearing the blue overshirt. He sauntered in and deposited himself on the opposite chair, stretching out his legs in front of him.

“I was just interrogated by our boy genius,” Bones began. By the depth of his accent, he’d already shared a few drinks with his team and was perfectly relaxed. He was also cradling a bottle on his lap.

“Yeah?” This promised to be good.

“He kept insisting there’s got to be a Russian somewhere in my lineage, and he wouldn’t believe me when I said I haven’t the faintest idea. I mean, it’s damned unlikely, but he made me go back as far as I could.” Bones pushed his bangs off his forehead, letting out a yawn. “Wouldn’t shut up until I bought him a drink or three.”

“He likes you,” Jim said.

“So do children and small dogs,” Bones muttered. “Your point?”

“It’s cute.”

“It’s annoying.”

“Be flattered,” Jim teased. “Hell, half the ship is really noticing you for the first time. They’re cluing in there’s more to you than your charming wit.”

“Are not.” Bones looked down at the bottle, and from the way he was running his right hand against the neck, it looked a bit like he was masturbating. That was hot.

“Oh, but they are.” Jim could feel his grin widening. “I saw Uhura checking out your legs.”

“She wasn’t,” Bones protested.

“Oh, she was. You might be giving Spock a run for his money if you’re not careful.”

Rolling his eyes, Bones finally held up the bottle. “Want some?”

Now he was talking. Jim put his book on the floor and then got up. “Dumb question.”

“Goes with the dumb nickname,” Bones said. “Fort McCoy, my ass.”

“See, proves my point.” Heading back to the chair and smiling to himself, Jim held out the glasses and watched as Bones poured out a generous helping of amber liquid. They toasted each other, and then Jim took a sniff, his eyes widening. “Bones, you’re drinking Scotch?”

He got a shrug in reply as Bones set the bottle on the floor. “A drink’s a drink.”

Jim snorted. “Hello, I know you?”

“Fine,” Bones mumbled, taking another mouthful of his drink. “Scotty gave it to me.”

“He did?” That sounded suspicious, and when Jim stooped to examine the bottle, he let out a low whistle. “This is good Scotch.”

“Wouldn’t know,” Bones said, finishing his glass. “But I’ll take another one.”

Pouring out another helping for them both, Jim studied the bottle again. “Scotty gave you good Scotch.”

“Do I need to give you a hearing test?” Bones scowled for a moment. “Let me guess, Scotty likes me, too?”

“No, you’re not his type.”

“What, male?”

“No, human.” Snickering to himself for a few moments, Jim sat on the armrest and studied Bones for a few moments with a grin. “But yeah, I think you impressed him, too. You obviously didn’t notice the way he was looking at you during the briefing this morning.”

“You mean the horribly awkward meeting when the two of you were practically pissing on each other over the stupid intramural?” Bones shook his head. “Yeah, I was wondering when I should’ve gotten the hose out to spray you two down. It’s just a game.”

“Nothing’s just a game,” Jim teased, “but what you did see was Scotty staring at your hands.”

“My hands?” Holding up his left hand and flexing his fingers, Bones just looked confused. “Why would he do that?”

“I know why I stare at your hands,” Jim said as he caught the hand and pressed it to his lips. He was rewarded by Bones’ lips quirking up. “But yeah, with Scotty? Go figure.”

“So Scotty and Uhura...” Bones took another drink of Scotch. “Dare I ask?”

“I saw Sulu looking, too,” Jim said. “He’d keep watching you during games, when his attention wasn’t on the ball. It’s like he couldn’t believe how hot you are.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Well, yeah.” Jim paused, watching Bones’ face for the intended reaction. “So the next sport is squash. Think you’ll be playing that, too?”

And he got a scowl. Score. “Hell, no. I quit the intramural racket.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be promoting physical activity and good health as the ship’s chief physician?” Jim pressed.

“Goddamn it, you sound like Chapel,” Bones complained, and Jim didn’t have the heart to tell him that Chapel had been staring, too.

“Can’t have that,” Jim said, and set down his own empty glass before reaching for Bones’. When they were both securely out of reach, he slipped down until he was straddling Bones’ lap. “Why, you don’t want people realizing how hot you are?”

“I don’t care what they think,” Bones replied, shifting a bit so Jim could sit easier.

“No?” Jim leaned in for a quick kiss, and pulled back. “Your biggest fan wants to know if you care what he thinks, though.”

“My biggest fan?” Both of Bones’ eyebrows raised at that, but at least he was amused.

“Who do you think started the whole Fort McCoy thing?”

Bones’ hazel eyes glinted dangerously. “That was you?”

“What if it were?”

“I ought to…” Bones began, but Jim stopped the rest of the thought with another kiss, more thorough this time. Bones pulled back for air, the irritation in his face faded into amusement again. “You really are an idiot.”

“He can stitch, he can suture…” Jim started to sing, and abruptly found himself on his ass on the floor. He hadn’t landed hard, and Bones was pulling off his black shirt. That was a good sign, so Jim started stripping off his own clothes. “Is there a physical in my future?”

“I’ll show you goal tending,” Bones muttered, taking off his boots.

“I can do a hole in one,” Jim grinned. “Providing it’s your goal.”

He got a groan for that one, but it didn’t really matter.

*fin*


End file.
